


Queen of the Ashes

by GingerMockingbird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerMockingbird/pseuds/GingerMockingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chronicles Sansa's ascent to the Iron Throne. She and Petyr Baelish develop a romantic relationship. Has the student surpassed the master? Has Littlefinger created a monster? Can Sansa be Petyr's redemption? Starts right after the end of the last Sansa chapter in AFFC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa I

"… _So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa… Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. That's worth another kiss now, don't you think?" – AFFC_

SANSA I

Sansa could feel her throat tightening. She had been promised to Joffrey, to Willas Tyrell, to Tyrion, and most recently, to Sweetrobin. She had actually _married_ Tyrion, although where he was now, and whether that marriage really counted, she could not say. She was weary of marriages.

Petyr was looking at her expectantly. _He wants me to be happy_ , _he did a lot to make this happen,_ she realized. She knew what he wanted. She gave him a tremulous smile, and kissed him on the mouth, the way she knew he wanted to be kissed. His lips parted under hers, and received her eagerly. He tasted of cinnamon and cloves and mulled wine. His arms came up around her, and pulled her closer to him. She allowed herself to melt into his embrace, allowed the kiss to go on as long as he wanted it to. When he finally broke away, she gently disentangled herself from him, and tried to choose her words carefully.

"Harry the Heir has a bastard at fifteen, _I'm almost fifteen,_ Petyr."

"Yes," he agreed, "You are almost fifteen, and you have been betrothed four times. Five, now. And married, I hear. Do I hear the crow calling the raven black?"

" _It's not the same_ , Petyr, _you_ know, I'm still a - " his eyes were dancing with fond amusement, and she realized that he was _teasing_ her. For some reason that made her angry. "Yes, he has a bastard," she repeated, "and another on the way. I know my lord father had a bastard, and he was an honorable man, but that was different, and even then my lady mother never really forgave him."

At the mention of her mother, something changed in him, but she bulled on regardless. "Harry probably won't make a very good husband, claim or no. Maybe – maybe there is a different way? Couldn't we – um…" the words died on her lips at the look on his face. _So much for choosing my words carefully,_ she thought.

"You told me you wanted to go home," Littlefinger said, flatly.

"I do, but –"

"Do you know another way?"

She had no answer for that. All his warmth was gone. He was no longer Petyr, begging for kisses, but Littlefinger, dealing with a stubborn pawn. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It must have shown on her face, because his manner changed. "Sansa, sweetling…" he began, reaching out gingerly to take her hand in his own. She jerked away, overcome with a reckless anger.

"You just want the Eyrie for _yourself_ , even if I do marry him, how long is he going to live?" Once the words came tumbling out, she couldn't stop them. "You only care about my claim to Winterfell, _none_ of this is for me, even if I do marry him and get control of the Vale, and Winterfell, you're just going to use that to try to – to – do something," she finished belatedly. She realized that there were tears on her cheeks, but she didn't know when they had gotten there.

She thought she saw hurt in his grey-green eyes, and for a moment, Sansa had a flicker of doubt. _Is it possible that he really did do this for me?_ She pushed the thought away – he was a masterful actor, she knew that. Petyr regarded her cautiously, his face a mask. Sansa's heart was in her throat – had she been mad, to say all that to him? He took her hand again, and this time she did not pull away. They were very close now. "I want you to think very carefully about what it is you want," he said softly. "And when you know, I want you to come tell me." _Because when you know what a person wants you know how to move them._ The thought came unbidden, but she did not let it show. "Can you do that for me?" Her heart was pounding very fast now, but she did not know if that was from fear, or something else. She was acutely aware of his touch, of his hand on hers, and of his closeness.

"Yes, Petyr," she said.

Later that night, snow swirled around the Gates of the Moon. From the battlements where Sansa stood, the landscape looked like a portrait painted only in shades of white, grey, and black. An icy wind tugged at her thin cloak. The night was colder than she had expected. _Winter isn't coming,_ Sansa thought, _winter is here._ At the far end of the wall, a guard paced back and forth, an attempt to keep warm during his watch. He paid her no mind, though.

Sansa didn't mind the bracing cold. It was refreshing after the stuffy heat of her chambers, where she had fled after her conversation with Petyr. She had been happy to see him too, she remembered sadly. He had kissed her, had told her he had brought her a present. If the present had been lemons, everything would have been easier.

She _had_ wanted to go home. But when she pictured home, it was the one she'd left – the one with her lord father and lady mother, with Robb and Arya and Jon and Bran and baby Rickon. She remembered the beautiful glass gardens, the warmth in the walls, kind maester Luwin, and Septa Mordane, who had taught her to be a lady, how to behave around wise lords and gentle knights. _She didn't teach me that there were no gentle knights, though,_ Sansa thought blackly. In fact, the things her septa had filled her head with had only hurt her, had left her a sheep among wolves in the south. _Not wolves,_ she reminded herself, _lions._

It didn't matter now anyway, though. They were all dead. Winterfell was burnt and broken. Even her direwolf was dead. It was possible, _maybe_ , that Arya was out there somewhere, alive, but Sansa had seen enough of the world now to know how unlikely that was. _I have no home, and no family but Petyr._ She remembered the time she saw him in the King's Landing throne room, so long ago, back when she still had a family. " _Life is not a song, sweetling",_ he had said, " _one day you will learn that to your sorrow."_ He had not lied to her in that, at least.

But curiously, thinking back on it, she felt nothing. She thought of Ser Ilyn Payne's dead eyes, and felt nothing. She thought of Ser Dontos being rewarded with crossbow bolds rather than gold, surprise etched on his fat face even as blood blossomed on his jerkin and his little boat began to sink, and felt nothing. It was as if she had already endured all the pain she was capable of enduring, and now, past her quota, she couldn't feel anything at all. She hated the Lannisters as much for that as for anything else – they ought to at least left her able to grieve, but no, they left her only a scar where her heart had been. _My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel,_ she thought, not for the first time. At least she wasn't afraid anymore. It's hard to be afraid when you have nothing left to lose.

 _What do I want?_ Petyr wanted power, she had no illusions about that. She couldn't blame him – she had tasted enough of powerlessness herself to want nothing more to do with it. He was using her, she knew, but she supposed that could go both ways. He was a dangerous man, there was no arguing that, but she liked his intelligence, his boldness, his easy competence. He had taught her a great deal in their short time together, had already done more to equip her for the world as it really was than her Septa or her true father ever had. She didn't think she could ever come to love his Littlefinger persona, but there was a flesh and blood person under that mask, and even Littlefinger had his uses, just as Alayne had hers. And, oddly enough, she knew in her bones that he wouldn't hurt her - she meant something to Petyr, and that would protect her from Littlefinger. Sansa stood on the battlements of the Gates of the Moon for a long time, looking out into the night. She stayed there when her fingers and her face grew numb from the cold, and a good while after that. By the time she went back inside, she knew what she wanted.

Three nights later, the Gates of the Moon held a dance, as Myranda had hinted it would. Sansa put on the nicest dress she dared. Alayne was only a bastard girl, and it would be strange if she came out clad in the beautiful myrish lace Sansa would have preferred. Nonetheless, the simple woolen dress looked nice, she thought, examining herself critically in the mirror. It was modest around the neckline, but the soft dark blue fabric brought out the color in her eyes, and the cut of it emphasized her slim curves.

Her hair was still the dark brunette Lysa had demanded she dye it, but Sansa no longer minded the color. She had found a fresh jar of the dye placed in her chambers when she first arrived, and had gratefully hidden her ginger roots. She had nearly run out of the stuff at the Eyrie, and it had been enough to remind her of the importance of this part of her disguise. She bounded up her hair as nicely as she could without the help of servants, and wore no ornament but the small silver mockingbird pin Petyr had given her.

The dance was already well underway when she emerged into the great hall. It was hot, loud, and crowded, but that was a welcome change after the loneliness of the Eyrie. There were hundreds of ladies in beautiful gowns, their dresses swirling splashes of color in the grey stone hall. Their men danced with them and loitered around the edges of the great hall, drinking, laughing, and talking. The room was a sea of faces, nearly all of them strange to her. She spotted Petyr in the far corner, nursing a cup of wine and conversing good-naturedly with Lady Waynwood and Nestor Royce. It was the first time she had seen him since the night of her arrival.

Myranda came up behind her.

" _Alayne!_ Dear, you look lovely," she said, taking her arm and guiding her towards one of the long tables. "We have _so much_ to talk about, you wouldn't believe the rumors flying around about you!"

"Rumors?" Sansa did her best to look mildly curious.

"Oh now, don't be coy, dear. You and I are friends, aren't we?"

"Of course, my lady."

"Alayne dear, I already told you, please just call me Myranda. Now, _is it true_ that you are engaged to _Harold Hardyng_?"

"Oh that – I mean, yes," she said. "Tentatively engaged would be a better way to put it, I still have to meet him, and it will only go through if he likes me." She gave the older girl a shy smile.

" _Oh that_ ," Myranda quoted her with a mischievous grin, "Do you have something else up your pretty sleeves?" She didn't wait for an answer, for which Sansa was grateful. "Well, you won't have to wait much longer to meet him, he's here."

"Here?"

"Come along then, I'll introduce you." Myranda steered her toward a group of raucous boys, and Sansa had no choice but to follow along.

Harold Hardyng was handsome in a boyish sort of way, she had to give him that. But his cheeks were flushed with wine, and there was a grease stain on his expensive attire. He was loudly telling a crude joke, to the great amusement of his companions, when Myranda interrupted to introduce her.

"My lady." He bowed drunkenly and planted a wet kiss on her hand when he learned who she was.

"I thought you said she was a bastard," interjected one of his friends.

"Shut up, Steve," said Harold.

Her betrothed led her to the dance floor, all smiles. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off her. "Do you dance, my lady?"

"A bit," she replied, shyly. In truth, she loved to dance. At Winterfell, the occasional dances had been her favorite events, and she had always looked forward to them. Septa Mordane had even been kind enough to say that she was a talented dancer herself. That had been a long time ago, though. Those Winterfell dances felt like something that had happened to somebody else. She wondered if Alayne would know how to dance.

It turned out to scarcely matter, however. They danced through three songs, but Harold made a poor partner – he didn't seem to know where to put his hands or his feet, and the wine had surely not helped either. His hands were sweaty, and he was holding her all wrong. He almost seemed nervous. "They told me you were pretty, my lady, but you are even more beautiful than they said," he told her at one point. Sansa appreciated the attempt at gallantry, but it was rather ruined by the fact that he kept stepping on the hem of her dress and nearly tripping her. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Petyr watching her from across the room, but when she looked again he was deep in conversation with Nestor Royce.

After the dancing, Harold led her over to the tables and pressed a cup of sweet-wine into her hands. She sipped it daintily while he regaled her with tales of tournaments and a new set of armor he was having made. It was going to be gleaming white chased with red, after the colors of House Hardyng, and the shield was going to have the image of a falcon emblazoned over the checkered field of his house, because, he added modestly, people called him the _Young Falcon._

Sansa listened and nodded and gasped at all the right moments, and let him prattle on happily about how he played at war. _He boasts of tourney battles, but he has never seen war_ , she thought sadly. _In war, nobody cares how lovely your armor is, they'll kill you all the same, and you'll kill them, because that is the whole point – knights are for killing._ The Hound had taught her that. Harold went on, oblivious. There was a time when he might of charmed her, she realized – indeed, the old Sansa would have probably fallen head over heels for him. But that girl was dead. _He is just boy,_ she thought. They were nearly the same age, but Sansa felt a thousand times older.

It was then that she noticed there was someone at her side, waiting to get her attention. He was an old man with a bushy white beard, bent almost double with age. After a moment, she recognized him – she had passed the old man on her way to breakfast the day before last, and he had done a double take, then stared at her as she walked past. It had made her only a little nervous at the time – she knew Alayne was a subject of gossip, and in any case, it was not so strange for old men to gawk at girls her age, but now she wondered if he knew her. She didn't _think_ she'd ever seen him outside the Vale, but then, she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell – it was more common for people to know her than it was for her to know them. She excused herself from Harold and let the strange old man lead her over to a corner where they could talk.

He looked left and right and beckoned her to lean in before he began. " _I know who you are_ ," he whispered.

A chill went through her, but she knew she couldn't show it. "What?" She tried to look confused and little put off by this strange old man.

"Please my lady, just listen. I know who you are, and Littlefinger is no friend of the Starks, no friend of anyone's, you have to believe me. He may be courteous to you, but Petyr Baelish is a dangerous man," he told her in a hoarse whisper. _Yes,_ she thought, _but the world is full of dangerous men._ Perhaps this one was dangerous. No doubt the old man thought he was being quiet, but a nearby hedge knight was looking at them curiously.

"My lady Sansa," he began again, "you are not friendless, if you give me some time I can get word" – she cut him off.

"My name is Alayne. I don't know what you're talking about." His eyes widened, but before he could go on she gave him a kindly smile and took his hand. "Its okay, Ser, my own childhood friend had an uncle who would sometimes become confused. He would mistake his daughter for his wife, and sometimes fail to recognize his lady wife at all. It happens sometimes, to the elderly, it can happen to the best of us when our days near their end. It's nothing to be ashamed of." She gave his head a reassuring pat and looked at him with sympathy. "I'll mention this to the Maester, I'm sure he can help you," she said warmly.

He looked up at her in horror, but she walked away before he could reply. She hadn't fooled him, she knew, but there had been little else she could say in front of the hedge knight. Her heart was hammering in her chest. _If Queen Cersei finds me…_ she didn't want to think about it. She had heard what they'd done to Tyrion, and if he was implicated in regicide, so was she. Harold was looking about for her, she saw, but she avoided him. There would be time enough for the _Young Falcon_ later. She forced herself to remain calm and meander to the other side of the hall, smiling and greeting the other guests as necessary.

Petyr looked up pleasantly when she approached. "Alayne, sweetling. I hope you are enjoying the evening." His manner gave no hint of the fact that they'd quarreled the last time they spoke.

"I am, father. I was wondering if you might like to dance," she asked shyly, and held out a hand.

Lady Waynwood beamed at her. "Oh, a father-daughter dance. What a dutiful child you have. How lovely!" She gave Petyr a playful push. "Well, go on then, Baelish! Don't keep the maid waiting!" She winked at Sansa with good humor.

Petyr didn't need to be told twice. He put down his drink, took her hand, and got to his feet in one fluid motion. His smile was warm, but she could see the question in his eyes. He took her arm the way a man was supposed to take a lady's arm, and escorted her to the dance floor. She needed a slow song that would allow her to get close and whisper in his ear, but this song had a fast tempo, as did the next.

Petyr guided her expertly through the steps, turning and stepping perfectly with the rhythm. Sansa let him twirl her and dip her and soon she grinning despite herself. _He can dance,_ she realized with surprised delight _._ Her Winterfell dancing lessons may have happened in a different life, but her feet and her body and her hands remembered them. _Of course he can dance, he danced with my mother at Riverrun_ , she thought, recalling Lysa's last rant. Petyr might be fifteen years Harold's senior, but he moved with more grace by far. His touch was gentle but sure, and she was starting to get a thrill when there was fleeting contact between their bodies. Most of the other guests paid them no mind, as the hall was quite crowded, but they were starting to get a few glances from those nearby. Sansa didn't have time to worry about that though, and neither, apparently, did Petyr. By the time the third dance ended, she was flushed and breathless with excitement. She felt almost a girl again.

Petyr was flushed and breathless too. His grey hair was disheveled from their twirling, but it only made him look more handsome, Sansa thought. _Are you trying to get us caught?_ his grin asked, but there was a happiness to him she had never seen before. This was dangerous, she realized, but he was trusting that she had a good reason. Or maybe he didn't care, maybe something about her made him reckless. She _did_ have a reason, though.

The fourth song was a slow one, and here at last was her opportunity. She let him hold her more closely. His hands draped protectively around her waist, and her hands his shoulders, as they revolved slowly on the spot. She had hoped they could dance their way to a more secluded part of the floor, but there were no secluded parts of the floor – it was crowded, and loud, but perhaps that was better. She leaned into him, making as if to rest her head on his shoulder.

" _The old man in the corner, with the white beard, the short one, he is confused,"_ she whispered as quietly as she dared, more into his shoulder than into his ear. " _He thought he saw a wolf."_

Petyr gave no sign that he had heard her, but when the song ended, he excused himself with a smile and a bow. "That was lovely, Alayne, but now I find myself in need of another drink." He kissed her hand chastely and strode off toward the wine table.

Sansa wanted to watch where he went, and who he talked to, but Harold and Myranda pushed their way through the crowd to join her almost as soon as he left. "You lied, you _can_ dance," said Harold with a sheepish grin. "It was all my fault we kept stumbling." He had the grace to look embarrassed, at least. Sansa had thought he would return to the company of his mates, but apparently he preferred hers. As did Myranda. She wanted to know where a bastard raised across the Narrow Sea had learned to dance like that. _Too clever by half, indeed._ She had no choice but to submit to their company.

The first time she was able to steal a glance at Petyr, he was chatting amiably with some men she didn't know, over wine. The second time, she found him back with Lady Waynwood and Nestor Royce. The little old man was nowhere to be seen.

By the time Sansa managed to rid herself of Harold and Myranda, the dance had been over for hours. Some few guests had remained sitting around the large oaken tables, talking, but by ones and twos they had dwindled back up to their rooms or out into the night. Sansa stood outside the great iron gates to the Gates of the Moon, having just said her farewells to Myranda. The girl had a very short journey – just across a courtyard and down a few steps – but had insisted Sansa see her off anyway.

A dozen yards or so from the gate, just beyond the edge of the torchlight, a pair of ladies leaving the dance seemed to see something in the ditch, and shied away from it in revulsion, like a pair of skittish mares. As Sansa watched, other passerby were doing the same, in the same place, although some of the more experienced knights and sellswords went on their way unfazed. Sansa found her own feet taking her towards the spot.

At first, it appeared to be no more than a small black lump in the darkness, but as she neared, Sansa saw that it was a corpse. The little old man looked even more frail in death than he had in life. He lay crumpled in a pool of his own blood, eyes wide and staring. He'd been run through with a spear. In the dim light, the blood looked black. Sansa found herself unable to turn away, transfixed with a curious detachment. She stared, even as other guests passed her on their way home. No doubt her behavior seemed strange to them. _"Littlefinger's daughter,"_ she overheard being said in hushed tones, from more than one set of lips. A little rivulet of dark blood was still moving, very slowly, down a slight incline in the ditch. Sansa felt sick – but whether that was because the body bothered her, or because it didn't bother her, she could not say.

"Lady Alayne, are you well?" A guard had come up to her, and was looking at her with concern. "He was only a vagrant who tricked his way into the feast, to steal food and who knows what else." He watched her uncertainly. "We can move the body, if it offends you."

"My daughter has a gentle heart," came Petyr's voice from behind them.

"Lord Baelish." The guard turned around and stood at attention.

Sansa made no effort to hide her queasiness. "Do we really have to kill vagrants like this, father? Isn't there another way to make them go away?"

He put a fatherly arm about her shoulder. "I wish there were sweetling, truly, I do," he said tenderly.

"Leave us," he said to the guard. "And have the body taken a little farther out into the woods. I want whoever dumped it here disciplined. There have been many children and gently born ladies using this road tonight, this was not a fit sight for them."

"Yes, Lord Baelish."

Petyr took her arm. "Please, walk with me." He led her out around the other side of the castle, and then out into the forest. Sansa noticed that there was a dagger on his belt under his long cloak. He noticed her eyes lingering on it. "Ah yes," he said, "you and I were safe at the Eyrie, sweetling, but here, there are many people coming and going, not all of them friends – as you may have noticed." He looked at her meaningfully. "I've never been much use in a fight, I fear, but one must take what precautions one can."

"Where are we going?"

"Just out where we can find some quiet and fresh air, and talk without being interrupted. As Lord Protector of the Vale, I find my attention is often in demand, and it can be hard to find the time for a word with you, sweet Alayne, as much as I enjoy your company."

They carried no torch, and it was quite dark under the trees, except in the places where moonlight dappled through the thick canopy of pine needles. The snowy forest seemed to swallow all sound, except for the crunch of snow under their feet. Their breath made little clouds in the cold air. It had snowed most of the day, but now the night was clear. She caught occasional glimpses of the sky through breaks in the branches, its cold inky blackness scattered with countless points of light. It had been a long time since Sansa had seen the stars.

She wondered how long they were going to walk. When she started to shiver through her thin dress, Petyr gave her his cloak, but they kept going. It was not until they had long since lost all sight and sound of the castle that Petyr led her into the shadow of a great pine, where it was almost black under the heavy snow-laden branches. Wordlessly, he pushed her up against the rough bark, pressed his body against hers, and kissed her for a long time.

When they finally broke apart, Sansa could feel herself blushing, but in the dark, Petyr couldn't tell. He wanted more, she knew, a lot more, but he only ran a caressing hand through her soft hair and held her close.

"He thought he saw a wolf," he said finally, in a soft voice.

"Yes," replied Sansa.

"Poor man. My daughter is a mockingbird." It was hard to be sure, in the dark, but she thought there was a hint of pride in his voice. "I saw you dancing with our Young Falcon." It was not a question.

"Yes," she said.

"Did you like him?"

"Not really." Harold wasn't a bad sort, she had decided, but neither did he interest her.

"Not really?"

"He's just a _boy_." Sansa didn't know how else to put it.

"You're just a girl."

"Yes, but I don't feel like one." There was more truth to that than she could say.

"Will you marry him?"

"Yes."

That surprised him. "You don't like Harold, but you'll marry him?"

"Yes," she said again.

It was a long time before Petyr spoke again. Melted snow from the tree's bark was soaking through the back of Sansa's dress. It was cold on her back, but Petyr was warm.

"You may remember that I asked you, a few days ago, to think about what it is you want. If you don't want Harold, what _do_ you want?"

" _You_ ," said Sansa. She had had her answer ready ever since that night on the battlements.

"What?" He hadn't been expecting _that_ , she thought with satisfaction. Or maybe he had. It didn't really matter though.

"I want you," she repeated. "I want the Vale. I want to rebuild Winterfell. I want to bring peace, security, and plenty to the Riverlands. I want to restore my uncle Edmure to his seat at Riverrun. I want to bring the Ironborn, the Boltons, and the Freys to their knees. I want to be the Queen in King's Landing. I want to find the people who betrayed my father. I want to take their heads, and call it mercy. I want to destroy Lannisport. I want to burn Casterly Rock to the ground, and sow its fields with salt so that nothing will grow there again." She let the words hang over them in the cold night air for a long moment. The dim starlight did not reveal much of his expression, but they were so close together, she could feel is pulse quicken, and it betrayed him.

"Will you do this for me, Petyr?"

" _Yes_ ," he breathed.


	2. Sansa II

SANSA II

Sansa woke alone in her bed, and stretched. It was deliciously warm under the soft covers, but the light filtering through the high window told her the sun had been up for several hours. Petyr was supposed to meet with the Lords of the Vale this morning, she remembered belatedly. She pulled herself out of bed and dressed quickly. Hopefully their meeting was still in session.

The Lords of the Vale would probably be in the high hall, she thought. Sansa slipped out into the narrow hallway with some trepidation, but there was nobody to be seen. It was colder out here than it had been in her chambers, she noticed, suddenly grateful for her thick woolen cloak. Cold sunlight still streamed through the elegant windows, but the world outside was frozen, a wonderland of icicles and unbroken snow. On the horizon, a wall of black clouds loomed, hanging over the Mountains of the Moon like some fell shadow. Sansa headed for the kitchens – a tray of buttered rolls and Arbor gold for the Lords of the Vale would make an ample pretext to join their council. She knew Petyr wouldn't mind, and she wanted to know what was going on. Many a raven had come of late, bringing troubling news, news of a winter like no other, of famine and war and dead men come to kill the living. None of which had affected the Vale. _Yet._

The lords barely glanced at her when she slipped into the high hall, set the rolls on the broad oaken table, and set about refilling their cups. Lyn Corbray was speaking loudly, his face flushed from the wine.

" _Yes_ , it is your right as Lord Protector, Baelish, nobody is arguing that. But it is too much, _too much,"_ he was saying heatedly. "With these snows we've had, the fields are going to be fallow for the rest o' winter, and not just ours, everybody's. I've _never_ seen the price of grain this high, all those goddamn kings have seen to that. You want _half_ the harvest to be stored in that castle o' yours? _Half?!_ We've got plenty to last the winter, there's no need. You should let us _sell half_ , and by spring the Vale will 'ave more gold'n Casterly Rock!" By the end of his tirade, he was standing, and swaying drunkenly. "Imagine that, no more bowing n' scraping to those goddamn Lannisters. But I guess we know servin' Lannisters don't bother you now, does it, Baelish?" he added nastily. With a small burp, he sat down heavily, apparently satisfied that he had made his point.

Petyr sat serenely across the table, patient sufferance written on his face, unfazed by Corbray's outburst.

Lady Waynwood looked uncomfortable. "What I think Lyn is trying to say –" she began diplomatically, "– is that half is really quite unprecedented. And winter has already begun! Even Jon Arryn never took more than a tenth, and he had an old man's caution." Sansa understood the woman's trepidation. A lord was supposed to keep back a portion of the harvest, to protect it and distribute it where needed when supplies ran short. The age-old practice protected a lord's bannermen from starvation if they had a poor harvest, or lost their stores to rats or mold or enemies. It even protected them from their own greed. But winter was closing all about them, and while Petyr had won their allegiance for the time being, his hold on their trust was more tenuous.

A servant entered from the door behind her, clutching a strip of parchment and looking nervous. Nobody but Sansa paid her any mind – Lyn Corbray had started shouting again.

"Lord Baelish is busy at the moment, you'll have to wait until after the meeting," Sansa told the girl quietly.

"It is a message for the Lord Protector, just came by raven, urgent, I was told that it cannot wait, my lady" she said, pushing the parchment into Sansa's hands. She glanced down at the hastily scrawled message, and recognized it. _Petyr saw this last night, he's already read it._ She thanked the servant and let her leave. The girl looked grateful that she hadn't needed to interrupt the heated meeting after all.

She realized that the Lords of the Vale had reached a lull in their conversation, and that Petyr was looking at her.

"Alayne, dear, do you have something for me?"

"Yes, father, a raven just came in with an urgent message for you. The maester said that it cannot wait."

There was concern on his face that did not reach his eyes, and suddenly Sansa understood. She read the message out loud, and tried to look a little surprised, a little distraught, as if it were her first time hearing the news too. The Lords of the Vale did not need to fake their alarm – their expressions grew more concerned with every word, it was almost funny.

She couldn't blame them though, the news was indeed dire – a band of heavily armed outlaws and starving peasants from the Riverlands had somehow made it through the Mountains of the Moon. Desperate and hungry, they had fallen on the first castle they had come across – Longbow Hall, seat of the Hunter family. Hundreds had been slain, several members of the Hunter family had been put to the sword, and Helen Hunter, Lord Gilwood Hunter's young wife, had been raped, along with who knew how many servant girls. Their food stores had been plundered.

On the far end of the table, Lord Gilwood Hunter looked ill. Petyr offered him three hundred swords to help secure his home and hunt down the perpetrators, and enough gold and grain to make repairs and get them through the next few months. Lord Hunter accepted with a curt nod, but could not manage to look grateful. He hurried from the room, still looking as if he were going to be sick. The remaining bannermen were in shock. How could this happen, they wanted to know. The Mountains of the Moon had always protected them before. What had the Hunters of Longbow Hall done to attract this enmity? Was this simple raiding, or the work of some Lord? Where were these brigands now? Were other keeps in danger?

Petyr heard each of them out, and explained in a heavy voice how he had feared that this would happen. Famine abounded outside the Vale. Arms, unlike food, were plentiful in the aftermath of the war. Rumor had it that the Vale, untouched by war and blessed with a rich autumn harvest, had plenty of food, and desperation gave some the strength to get through the Mountains of the Moon and come seek it. They would hunt down those responsible for sacking Longbow Hall, Petyr assured them, but he worried that more would come – it was why he had wanted to store as much food as possible in the Eyrie, he confessed, for there it would be safe, and give brigands no reason to raid his bannermen. If they wanted to keep their grain in their own holds, however, he understood – he respected their preference – it was, after all, they who bore the risk.

By the time Sansa slipped out, Lady Waynwood was saying that perhaps it _would_ be prudent to store some grain in the Eyrie, and even Lyn Corbray had the grace to look ashamed. Lord Horton Redfort was offering Petyr _three quarters_ of his harvest. He disliked Littlefinger, Sansa knew, but apparently he disliked raiding brigands even more. Sansa smiled.

That evening, she was watching the snows swirl outside her window when Petyr came to her. She was not surprised.

"You did well, reading the message, sweetling," he said.

"The servant girl would have done it if I wasn't there," she replied.

"Yes," he conceded, "but all the same, it was beautifully done." He slid his arms around her from behind and planted a delicate kiss on her neck.

She turned around and looked at him shrewdly. "So, the Lord Protector now controls a majority of the food in the Vale – and for that matter, probably a majority of the food in the seven kingdoms." Sansa might have been a summer child, but she was of the North, and she knew the value of food when the snows piled high. "Some might say, in times like these, grain is as good as gold," she added with a sly smile.

"Better," replied Petyr. "The value of gold fluctuates – did you know that? But the worth of bread to a starving man is always the same, it is always whatever he has to give."

"And the brigands, did – did you have anything to do with…" for the first time, she was uncertain.

Petyr did not reply, but his eyes danced with mischief. He pulled her close and covered her mouth with his. She yielded to his kiss and thrilled at the taste, the feel of him. When they broke apart, she half expected him to try and do more, half wanted him to try and do more, but he seemed to have something else on his mind. He sat in one of the chairs by the fire, and gestured for her to do the same.

"You would not believe what is happening in the North, sweetling," he said, turning her hand over in his. "The Wall has been breached, and the Stark lands are overrun by dead men, _white walkers_ , they are called."

It was always interesting, to Sansa, to see how he reacted to such news. He hadn't believed the tales of magic stirring at the edge of the world until quite recently, she knew, not until they could no longer be denied. At first, things like this – the dead men, the _dragons_ – left him a little out of his element, but he recovered quickly, and soon came to see them as just another piece in the game. Petyr Baelish had built his empire on rationality, but he also accepted the world as he found it. These things bothered Sansa, too – it seemed monstrously unfair to her that the only songs turning out to be true were the horrible ones.

"When I marry Harold and take back Winterfell – " she began, but he interrupted her.

"Winterfell is going to have to wait, Sansa," he said softly.

"What?" This wasn't what she wanted to hear, and he knew it.

"You want to kill Boltons, I know, but believe me, these white walkers are already doing an admirable job of that. We cannot retake the North right now. With the forces of the Vale behind us, we might have been able to reclaim the North from _men_ , but it seems that these dead men do not die easily. If we were to send an army to retake your home, we would only be one army the poorer."

"But, the Umbers and the Crannogmen – there were many in the North who remained loyal to my father. They are _my_ people, even if we were only able to help them a little, we have to try…" she trailed off when she saw that Petyr wasn't looking at her. He stared into the flickering flames in the hearth, a curious expression on his face, letting the silence hang between them. When he finally spoke, there was a rare sincerity in his voice.

" _Never_ fight an enemy you cannot defeat, Sansa. _Ever_. No matter how much you want to, no matter what it means to you. If you cannot win, choose a different enemy," he said, his grey-green eyes meeting hers now. "You have no shortage of them."

That was true, at least. "So, the marriage… ?"

"Will still happen," he finished for her. "We still need to solidify our hold on the Vale, and your marriage to Harry will do just that. You will, however, be marrying as Alayne Stone. I know we had planned to reveal your identity at the wedding, but events are moving quickly, my sweet, and our plans must needs change to accommodate that. It would not serve, revealing your identity now, and we can always do it later. Yes, the wedding would have made a good occasion for it, but other spectacles can be arranged. Perhaps when our poor Sweetrobin dies, and Harold succeeds as Lord of the Vale – that may be a good time, but not now."

There was something he wasn't telling her, she realized. Parts of his explanation didn't quite fit. _Even if I would only be Queen of the North in name, not in fact, it could still help us. So why keep the secret?_ Sansa had never pressed him before, when he chose to be cryptic, but this time she did. When she put the question to him, he looked at her ruefully.

"You have heard of the Dragon Queen in Meereen, yes?"

"Of course." The news that dragons had returned to the world was on every tongue these days.

"She has sacked Meereen."

"That's old news." And it was.

"You misunderstand me, Sansa. She has sacked Meereen _again_. With a Dothraki horde and her largest dragon at her back. And she has a new councilor."

"Who?"

Petyr eyed her carefully, as if waiting to gauge her reaction. " _Tyrion Lannister_ ," he answered.

"Tyrion is _alive_?!"

He nodded. "When you were married to the Imp, did you ever notice that he liked to read?"

"Yes," said Sansa. _Where was this going?_ "He read everything he could get his hands on, and as a member of one of the wealthiest families of Westeros, that was a lot. He read mostly practical things, but when he had the time he also enjoyed histories, geographies, and accounts of the ancient Targaryens, especially of their dragons." Sansa smiled – she hadn't thought of that in a long time. "He once told me about how Visenya – " she stopped at the look on Petyr's face.

"Yes, well," he continued drolly, "it seems he has a dragon of his own now. The green one."

"Daenerys gave him one of her dragons?"

"It turns out that it is not really a matter of her _giving_ a dragon to anyone. Apparently they are rather obstinate creatures, and difficult to control. She tried to give one to her lover, first, but the beast killed him." That seemed to amuse Petyr. "But the Imp has been training his gradually, using every trick he learned from those dusty books, and has yet to meet a gruesome end. My sources tell me he has even ridden his, a few times, and come away unscathed."

Sansa tried to picture Tyrion on the back of a dragon, and couldn't.

She thought she understood where he was going with this, now though. "I'm to marry as Alayne because Tyrion has reemerged, and Sansa can hardly be married to two men at the same time." Petyr nodded. "Couldn't we just say that the union was illegitimate though, since it was never consummated?"

"Not while the Imp is alive, I'm afraid," said Petyr. "He may try to come find you, and consummate your marriage. Word is he's a little…" Petyr seemed to be searching for the right word "… _bitter_ about his love life."

"Tyrion won't hurt me," Sansa said immediately, without thinking.

Petyr's lip curled. He plainly didn't care for the subject.

"Yes, well," he began, his tone even, "you can consummate with the Imp and become the Lady of Casterly Rock, or, you can burn Casterly Rock to the ground and sow its fields with salt." His eyes never left her face. "But you can hardly do both." Littlefinger's manner was carefully controlled, but there was a dangerousness under his words that Sansa did not miss. His concern was unwarranted though. Sansa had nothing against Tyrion, but she had meant what she had said under the stars.

"I'll marry Harold as Alayne," she said, to reassure him.

"Good," said Petyr, his smile warm now. He leaned close and took her hand again. "Now, I've brought you a present."

"You have?"

He nodded, and brought a soft hand to her cheek. "Close your eyes sweetling, I have to go get it."

"Okay." She closed them. _This_ she hadn't expected - she was curious to see where it would lead. She hoped this present would be better than the last one.

"No peeking," he told her.

"I won't."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise." He moved close to her and kissed her lightly on the cheek, but still she did not open them. She then heard him walk away, open the door, and leave the room. _What is he doing?_ Sansa sat there, alone in the room with her eyes closed, for what was probably only a minute or two, but felt much longer. When his footsteps returned, they were accompanied by occasional scratching and fluttering noises. This all seemed very strange to Sansa - her heart began to beat a little faster, but still she did not open her eyes.

"Okay, you can look."

She looked, and there, at her feet, sat a gilded cage with a little bright-eyed brown bird in it. It hopped and fluttered around the cage, and Sansa's face broke into a disbelieving grin. "Is this - is she for me?" She looked up into Petyr's face, hardly daring to hope.

"Yes, she's yours. A little mockingbird for my little mockingbird." For once, his smile was real. "I know you were lonely at the Eyrie, and you may yet be lonely when you marry Harold, but I hope that she can bring you some companionship. Do you like her?" In answer, Sansa jumped up and pulled Petyr in to a tight hug. Tears pricked in her eyes, but they were happy ones. It had been so long since anybody had done something this kind for her.

"She's _beautiful_ Petyr, thank you so much." She let him go and knelt down to get a closer look at her new friend. "Does she have a name?"

"Not yet. You'll have to give her one."

"I'll think I'll name her... Kimi," said Sansa, after a long moment. She put a finger into the cage, and beamed when the little bird hopped onto her hand.


	3. Sansa III

SANSA III

Sansa's wedding gown was beautiful, an elegant creation of pale silk and white myrish lace. It fit perfectly. Her brunette hair was done up elaborately with a flowered silver hairnet, a few curly locks allowed to escape it to frame her face prettily. A string of brilliant fire opals adorned her neck. The head seamstress and a veritable army of handmaidens were still clucking about, adjusting a hem here, a lock of hair there, and Sansa knew she should stand still for their sake, but she couldn't help herself – when a moment presented itself, she did a half-spin, and smiled with girlish delight at the way the dress twirled about her slim hips.

She still had her reservations about the groom, but she didn't think she had anything to fear from Harry, and his family had been so kind. His grandfather Elys had hugged her and proclaimed that he had a new granddaughter, and his numerous aunts had scarcely missed an opportunity to tell her how lovely she was, what a perfect bride for their young Harold. The Waynwood matriarch – Lady Anya – had been in her element, planning a ceremony and feast that promised to go off without a hitch. When they brought out her maiden's cloak, it had mockingbirds on it.

There was a rapt knock on the door, and in swept little grey Lady Waynwood.

"Alayne, dear, you look beautiful," she said, beaming at her ward's betrothed. "The ceremony is about to begin. Are you ready to become Lady Alayne _Hardyng_?" There was a kind twinkle in the woman's eyes.

"Yes, my lady," answered Sansa. And she was. There had been another wedding, in another time and place, but she was determined not to let the ghost of that experience ruin this one.

Nonetheless, her throat was dry when Lady Waynwood led her out into the great hall. The hundreds of guests were already seated, their necks craning as they turned to get a look at her. The aisle seemed to stretch out forever in front of her, and at the end of it stood Harold, in his finest livery. _Its only a wedding,_ Sansa told herself, _you've done this before, and that was much worse. Nobody here is going to threaten to rape you. Nobody here killed your father._ She almost felt dizzy, but then Petyr was there.

"Ah, and here's your father, dear, he'll give you away to your new husband," said Lady Waynwood unnecessarily, unaware of the irony in her words. Petyr took her arm. Sansa looked up into his face, wondering what she would find there, but he looked and acted every part the dutiful father, his mask flawless. _My mask must be flawless too_ , thought Sansa, taking strength from him. She found his touch reassuring as he led her down the aisle.

When they reached the dais, Petyr took his place at a table in the front row, and Sansa climbed up to stand beside Harold. The septon cleared his throat to indicate he was about to speak. A hush fell over the crowd. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby join these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity," said the septon. "Look upon one another, and say the words."

Sansa faced her betrothed, his good-natured brown eyes staring into her blue ones. " _Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger,"_ their voices rang out together, echoing around the long hall. _"I am his, and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days._ " When they had said the words, Harold unfastened her maiden's cloak and pulled his checkered red one over her shoulders in its stead, placing her under his protection in the sight of the Seven. The assembled guests cheered and wolf-whistled approvingly when their Young Falcon gave his young bride a deep kiss.

The wedding feast was extravagant, but Sansa only picked at her food – her belly was in an anxious knot. She and Harold sat at the high table, as did Petyr. Harold shot her shy smiles and complimented her from time to time on her beauty, but beyond that, he didn't seem to know what to say to her, so he drank his wine and laughed with his friends instead. He went through many glasses of strong-wine, and became louder and more jovial with each one. He had been drunk when they met at the dance, too, she remembered. _Have I married a drunk, or he is just drinking because he's nervous?_ She supposed she'd find out soon enough.

The feast went on for hours, but for Sansa, the time moved with a speed that only the dread of something imminent can bring, and before long there were raucous calls for the bedding. Tyrion had spared her this, but she knew she would not escape it a second time. A gaggle of girls led Harold up to their chamber, laughing and shouting and undressing him along the way. He gave as good as he got. Sansa wondered for a moment if he had bedded any of them, but there was no time to think about it. Harold's friends were lifting her up and carrying her, their many hands pulling at her dress and fondling her breasts, her curves, her legs, with grins on their faces and crude jests on their lips. But in this moment, at least, there was no need to act – a maid was allowed to be apprehensive on her wedding night. Her eyes found Petyr's, and there at last was crack in his mask.

They threw her onto the marriage bed, her hair now disheveled, her dress now half unlaced and slipping off one shoulder. Harold was already there, grinning from ear to ear. His hair was tousled and he had somehow lost his shirt. Most of the guests withdrew after that, but a few of the bolder lads lingered around making noises about _tradition_ , and had to be escorted out. "Out, you louts! Give the newlyweds some peace!" chided Lady Waynwood, and at last they were alone, the heavy oaken door closed and barred. _This is it, I'm not going to be a maiden anymore._ Cersei had said it would be messy, but magical. It was odd that she would think of the Lannister queen at a time like this, but it was the only real sex advice a woman had ever given her.

Harold finished removing her dress and smallclothes. He tried to be gentle, but his fumbling fingers had difficulty with the ties on her smallclothes, and kept pinching her. The room was chill, and her naked skin prickled into gooseflesh under his sweaty hands. He nearly lost his balance when removing his own remaining garments – he was _very_ drunk, Sansa realized. His manhood was only half hard – she had heard that too much drink could do that to a man. When he crawled on top of her, he reeked of alcohol. He was _heavy_ , too, and the weight crushed her a little. He planted a few sloppy kisses on her neck and breasts, no doubt meant to arouse her, and then moved to enter her. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She was not very wet, and he still wasn't completely hard, but he shoved himself inside her anyway.

It _hurt_. He thrust into her once, twice, three times, but then pulled out, rolled over to the side of the bed, and puked.

"Har – Harold?"

"I'm so sorry Alayne, I really am, I just –" he leaned over and retched once more. "I'm sorry," he said again, miserably. He looked it, too. "You are perfect, you are beautiful, its all my fault, but the wine – I don't know, it was really strong." He wiped the puke off his lips with the back of his hand. "I know what you're thinking – I know I had a lot, but it doesn't – doesn't normally affect me this much." He looked at her helplessly.

Sansa was shaking. There was blood on the sheets, her maiden's blood. Harold stumbled over to where a pitcher sat on the side table and washed his mouth out several times with water. When he came back and kissed her though, he still tasted of vomit. It took all her inner strength not to gag, not to run, not to hit him. Sansa's thoughts groped frantically for something, anything that might help her, but the only lesson that came to mind was her very first one. _Courtesy is a lady's armor_.

"Its okay, Harry," she forced herself to say. _My mask must be perfect, like Petyr's._ She put a gentle hand to his cheek. "My lord, you were so handsome tonight. I have looked forward to marrying you ever since we met that night at the Gates of the Moon. This is the happiest night of my life, but I find I am very, very tired from the feast." They were lies, but lies he needed to hear.

"You have? You are?" There was relief and a bit of shame in his face. He went on uncertainly. "Well then maybe – do you want to just go to sleep, then?" She nodded numbly.

They blew out the candles, and Harold fell asleep quickly.

Laying in the heavy darkness, Sansa felt empty. In truth, it hadn't been that bad – the pain had subsided quickly, and the place between her legs already felt almost back to normal – but hot tears stung her eyes anyway. Harold was snoring beside her. _My husband,_ she thought blackly. All the ceremony and beauty of the wedding, all the songs – could it be that they really all just boiled down to this? And she wasn't a maiden anymore. It seemed so strange that what had just happened meant the difference between being a child and a woman, being fit for marriage or not, between innocence and the loss of innocence. _Is this really how it is supposed to work? Is there something wrong with me?_ She did not feel profoundly different, only sore and a bit sick.

Moonlight slanted through the long window. Sansa slipped out of bed and padded silently over to the table, where sat a pitcher of water and a pitcher of Arbor gold. The rough stone was cold on her bare feet. She drank the water first, swishing it around her mouth and then swallowing, swishing and swallowing, until the taste of Harold was gone. Then she drank a small glass of the wine. She poured the remaining water into the wash basin in the corner, and used that and a small cloth to wash her arms, her body, and between her legs, until she finally felt clean. Harold was still snoring softly.

Kimi's cage was in the windowsill, and she gave a small chirp. The bird had been unusually quiet for a mockingbird, but she chirped again when Sansa approached. "Ssssshhh, little bird, we have to be quiet now," she whispered. She put a finger through the cage and stroked her lightly on the head. She knew it was silly to expect a mockingbird to understand her, but Kimi did not chirp again.

She dressed in the dark, as quietly as she could, not back into her wedding dress, but into a simple black linen shift. Sansa was grateful she'd had the foresight to have her things brought up here before the ceremony. She was grateful, too, that the heavy oaken door to their chamber didn't make a sound when she opened it, sliding silently on well-greased hinges. She was thrice grateful when she found that there were no guards outside the door – and why would there be? This was not King's Landing, she was not a prisoner, at least not in the literal sense.

Nobody accosted her on her way to Petyr's solar, and when she got there, she found that there was still light inside. She slipped into the room without knocking, and closed and barred the door behind her. Petyr crossed the room in two strides, surprise and worry on his face.

" _Sansa_ ," he whispered, "What's wrong, what happened, did he hurt you?"

"No, not really," she said.

"Did you…?"

"Yes," she answered.

"Then, why…" his eyes searched her face for a clue to her intentions. " _You shouldn't be here,_ " he whispered, "it would not be wise to be discovered here, tonight of all nigh –" she cut him off with a kiss.

He had been holding a quill, but it slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the floor as he brought both his hands up around her. He tasted of sweet-wine and mint and something more, something uniquely _Petyr_. She liked the way his body felt, pressed against hers. When they broke apart, he was flushed and breathless, and Sansa realized that this was the first time she had kissed him unprompted. His eyes flicked to the bar on the door.

Sansa led him to his bed, and pushed him down on it, wordlessly. His eyes widened a little as he finally understood her intent, her reason for coming here. But he did not question her this time – only pulled her down on top of him, held her close, and kissed her the way she wanted to be kissed.

He kissed her for a long time, on her mouth, on her neck, on her breasts, on the insides of her arms and legs, until Sansa felt the warm slippery wetness between her legs that had been so absent in her marriage bed. She thrilled at his every touch. She had been on top of him, but now he flipped her around and straddled her, a possessiveness, passion, and breathless happiness about him. His hands went up under her thin linen shift to explore her curves. She slipped out of the thin black garment, and he pulled her now naked body close to him. His kisses moved to the wetness between her legs, and she let out a little gasp – Harold hadn't done _that_. Sansa's back arched with pleasure, with desire, with longing. Petyr's grey hair was handsomely disheveled, and his normally cool, intelligent grey-green eyes were black coals of lust in the flickering candlelight. In that moment, Sansa wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything before.

Petyr sat up and pulled off his shirt. Even in the low light, she could see the vicious scar that ran nearly the entire length of his chest, over his sternum and almost down to his groin. Their eyes met, and for a moment he hesitated, as if he thought she might say something, but Sansa knew better than to do so. Instead, she fumbled ineffectively at his breeches, but he caught her hands, kissed them, and removed his breeches and smallclothes himself. He pressed his lips against hers and kissed her again, passionately, and buried a caressing hand in her soft, clean hair. He was on top of her, but he supported most of his weight with his elbows, so as not to crush her. Her head was spinning, but still she wanted more.

There, in the low light of his chambers, on her wedding night, Petyr took her. It felt indescribably good to finally have him inside of her. She yielded herself to him, lost in his scent and in the rhythm of his body, which was all around her, _in_ her. A peculiar pleasure was building with every thrust. Between little gasps and moans, she found something then that Harold had not been able to give her. In the end, she felt his body tense as he found his release. When it was done he remained on top of her, still inside of her, his head nestled in the crook of her shoulder. She held him like that until he reluctantly pulled himself off of her. Petyr lit the candle by the bed, and kissed her gently on the cheek. In the soft light, he looked more handsome than ever, with something resembling happiness in his eyes, although with Petyr, one could never be sure.

Suddenly feeling very exposed, Sansa got up and began to look for her clothes. Petyr said nothing, but only looked at her with an expression that might have been tenderness. She felt dazed, but oddly contented. There were reasons why this was wrong, good ones, but they seemed far away and unimportant compared to the fuzzy pleasantness their coupling had left her with. His seed was inside of her, she knew, and a droplet of it ran down her leg.

For the first time that night, she was acutely aware of her nakedness. _This really was a mad risk to take,_ she thought, _what if somebody finds out?_ It had seemed so right in the moment, but now the enormity of what had just happened crashed down on her, and she noticed her hand had begun to tremble. Smallclothes in hand, she reached for her dress, lying rumpled on the floor.

"I'll just – g-good night, P-Petyr –" she stuttered as she moved toward the door.

"Wait" he said. He caught her hand and drew her back to the bed. For a moment he seemed almost _vulnerable_ , as vulnerable as she was. He was dazed too, she realized. It was not Littlefinger she had just given herself to, but Petyr, the man underneath. This hadn't been planned.

"Stay here," he said softly.

"Will somebody find us? We shouldn't be found like this."

"Nobody will find us," he whispered with a quiet surety that brooked no argument. "You can stay for an hour or two, I will stay awake for us." He kissed her lightly on the nose. Petyr pulled the soft blankets back over them both. He blew out the candle, and held her. She liked the way their bodies fit together – his embrace was surprisingly comfortable. She nuzzled close to him, and pushed her doubts away. Tomorrow would bring what it must, but here and now there was only Petyr.

He woke her a few hours before dawn. Her heart was in her throat on the journey back, but again she encountered no one, and Harold was still asleep. She crawled into bed beside her new husband, and waited for the morning light. Her eyelids were heavy. Sansa resolved not to fall asleep again, but she must have, because she dreamed that she was a bird, a tiny bird in a tiny cage on a windowsill.


	4. Sansa IV

SANSA IV

Kimi flitted about a nearby bush, and then returned to Sansa's shoulder, chirping and singing in turns. Sansa grinned. At first, she had only let the little mockingbird out in her chambers, with the doors and windows closed, but she had discovered to her delight that Kimi always came when Sansa said her name. After that, it had become well known about the castle that Harold's young wife had a pet mockingbird that could often be found sitting on her shoulder or flitting about her head. It was unusual behavior for this species, they told her – mockingbirds were notoriously difficult to train – and some people complained that she got in the way, but Sansa didn't care. She felt an odd sort of kinship with the little bird. She often dreamed that she _was_ Kimi, and those dreams had become more interesting since Sansa had freed her from the gilded cage.

The day was overcast, but warmer than it had been for quite some time. The ground and trees were still laden with a heavy layer of snow, but the branches dripped with melt that would probably refreeze that night. She half-sat, half-lay in Petyr's arms, their backs against the broad trunk of a soldier pine. Melted snow had quickly soaked through Petyr's thick woolen cloak – on which they sat – but it was nothing to Sansa, for a moment alone with him. Their chances had been few enough. The father-daughter ruse gave them some excuse to spend time together, but nonetheless, in the weeks since her wedding they had only been able to steal a few kisses and one more coupling. Today, they had ridden far from the castle on the thin pretext of enjoying the temporary lull in the cold weather. It was reckless, but Petyr never did seem able to apply his habitual caution to matters concerning her.

Petyr gave her a long, slow kiss and held her close. She snuggled against him happily, tangled in his warm embrace. To the world, he was still Littlefinger, the conniving man of great ambition and few scruples, but he rarely wore that mask with her anymore. She noticed that he was running a caressing hand through her brunette locks, smiling to himself.

"Your hair looks lovely this way, Sansa," he said quietly, an easy happiness about him that she only saw when they were alone.

"I thought you liked my hair red?"

"I did – I do – but it is beautiful this way too." _I thought you liked my hair because it looks like my mother's,_ thought Sansa, but she said nothing. If Petyr was starting to admire her for traits her mother never had, she wasn't going to challenge him on it. He was kissing her face affectionately when Kimi returned to Sansa's shoulder, and chirped at him indignantly. He laughed, but then his expression more grew serious. With a gentle hand, he turned her face toward his until she was looking right into his grey-green eyes.

"I have to leave soon, Sansa. Tomorrow, most like," he told her.

That made her sit up. "You do? Why?"

"I have businesses to manage, for one thing. But there are also alliances to make and plans to set in motion. A great deal is happening beyond the Vale, and I need to be out there, pushing things our way."

Her throat tightened a little, but she wasn't surprised. She had known this was going to happen, but she had hoped it wouldn't be so soon.

"And I am to stay here, with Harold?"

"I scarcely see another choice," Petyr told her, "and in any case, I need you to hold the Vale for us."

"That doesn't seem like much of a task." Sansa was oddly disappointed – she had learned so much from Petyr, and she wanted to put it to use.

"Hopefully it won't be," he said, "but things can change quickly, and if they do, I still need you to hold the Vale. _And_ – if you get a chance to extend our power in the Riverlands, take it. And try to keep our _Young Falcon_ from doing anything stupid."

"But what if – what if something goes wrong between Harold and I?" The frequent fear of getting caught with Petyr had left her wary of her new husband, although he had been nothing but kind to her since the marriage. The thought of it always put her heart in her throat, but Petyr was laughing out loud.

"Sweetling, if something goes wrong, I find I fear more for Harold's longevity than I do for you," he said fondly, playing with her hair again. "You said it yourself. He's just a _boy_. He's never even killed a man, yet alone a woman." He stopped and looked at her. "You still have the hairnet you wore to Joffrey's wedding, yes?" She nodded. "Good."

He kissed her possessively then, and rolled both of them onto the ground. They made love there, on the snow – keeping most of their clothes on, because they were outdoors and it was cold. But Petyr was warm, and he scarcely had to touch her to get her wet. He slid in easily, and pressed his mouth hard over hers to swallow the sounds of her gasps and moans. When it was done her hair and clothes were wet, muddy, and disheveled, as were his, and Petyr's seed was inside her. She kissed him tenderly, on the mouth, and he responded in kind. He laughed at the state of her clothes, and pulled her back up to sit with him by the tree.

"We may need to say that Alayne fell off her horse," he said with amusement in his eyes, and kissed her again. "But, sweetling, try not to kill Harry unless you absolutely have to – we do need him alive for the time being."

"I know, I just need to _control_ him," she said. Sansa thought that was easier said than done. Harold could be stubborn, once he got an idea in his head, and he never looked to her for political advice.

"He is enamored with you, sweetling, just show him how to be chivalrous, and he will be putty in your hands," Petyr told her. "One of the easiest ways to move people is by letting them be what they want to be."

"He's not chivalrous," replied Sansa, flatly.

"No, no more than his kind ever are, I'm afraid," agreed Petyr, "but no doubt he likes to _think_ himself chivalrous. You can use that." He had a faraway look as he continued. "Men who think nothing of going to war, of putting down those beneath them, all while pretending to themselves that they are honorable are the dumbest cunts alive, and the easiest to manipulate." He spoke softly, but something about his tone unnerved Sansa – she wasn't sure he was still talking about Harold.

Sansa kissed his neck to distract him, and his smile soon returned.


	5. Arya I

ARYA I

The rough stone walls of the chamber below the temple of the Many-Faced God were awash in flickering torchlight. A boy in the corner held an elegant pitcher of red wine, his manner demure and his face like stone as he filled the cups of the Acolytes who requested it. Arya had once been in his place, but now she sat in one of the many strait-backed weirwood-ebony chairs, her cowl up over her face. When she gave a subtle tip of her empty goblet, it was he who came and filled it, and she who gave no sign that he was there – for she was a full member of the Faceless Men now, and that was the way of things.

The kindly-faced man stood at the front of the room. One by one, he called out the names of the Acolytes, and one by one, they approached him. "A man has been unfaithful to his wife, as she dies of the grey plague. Her sister, she gives us his name." The kindly faced man paused, as the Acolyte in front of him waited silently. "Alan Kraznyz," he continued, finally.

"I will give this man the gift, I know him not," the Acolyte said, to indicate that he would accept the assignment. A Faceless Man could only accept a kill for a name he was unfamiliar with – their order never sent an assassin against somebody they knew. Arya watched silently as the next Acolyte was called up, and the next. Most of the Acolytes said "I will give this man the gift, I know him not," when they were given their names, but a few said, "I know this man," and returned to their chambers, without an assignment. Finally, Arya and the kindly faced man were the only ones left in the room, and she knew it was her turn.

"A man borrowed greatly from the Iron Bank in his role as Master of Coin in the court of a King," the kindly-faced man said when she approached him. "To all eyes, it was the Coin Master who was frugal and resourceful, the King who spent more than he had, and the Iron Bank the fool for lending. But, as a man at the Iron Bank has found, it was in fact the Coin Master who was embezzling and the King who was the fool. A Coin Master needs to be reminded of his obligations to the Iron Bank, but cannot be himself harmed, because only the Coin Master can repay the debt. But a Coin Master has a daughter who is dear to him, and the man at the Iron Bank thinks that this will be reminder enough, so he gives us her name."

She stood as still as a statue, waiting for the name the Many-Faced God had given her.

"Alayne Stone," said the kindly-faced man at last.

Arya knew nobody by that name. "I will give this girl the gift, I know her not," she answered solemnly.


	6. Sansa V

SANSA V

Sansa sat on a blue cushion near the window, her pretty face dappled with the chill sunlight filtering through the thick glass. Her dress was a brilliant blue, her neck and slim left wrist adorned by moonstones set in silver. Her husband was still getting dressed for the ceremony – he had gained some weight over the past few months, and was having difficulty fitting his emerging gut into his old red-and-white livery. With a frustrated yank, he finally managed to fit himself into the straining garment.

"Alayne, do you think this looks okay?" Harold asked her, anxiously.

"You look great, dear," she answered with an indifferent smile. He looked like an overstuffed lobster, in truth, but Sansa had no interest in explaining that to him. She slid to her feet and held out a hand. "Are you ready to go, love?"

"Yeah, I guess," he replied uncertainly. With one last unhappy glance at the looking glass, he allowed her to lead him down to the great hall, to mingle with their many guests. Sansa didn't trouble herself over her husband's melancholy – he would drown it in wine soon enough, she knew, as he always did. In the main hall they found the many minor lords and ladies of the Vale laughing softly over appetizers, conversing closely over wine, their many eyes drawn to Harold and Alayne as they emerged arm-in-arm into the high-ceilinged hall, a perfect picture of a perfect young couple. Sansa put on the sad smile she had deemed appropriate for the occasion. Tonight, in the aftermath of poor Sweetrobin's untimely passing, she and Harold would be formally recognized as the new Lord and Lady of the Vale.

Sansa's eyes raked the crowd with thinly concealed contempt. Yesterday these same distinguished guests had been all in black for Sweetrobin's funeral. Yesterday, they had murmured condolences and shaken their heads sadly at the passing of one so young, but their grief had been feigned, and their masks were _so transparent_. Looking at them now, she could find no trace of that manufactured sorrow in their faces. A few of the women had even made as if to sob into their handkerchiefs, when the septas bore his small casket to its earthy resting place, but the only real tears had been Maester Colemon's. _These people_ , she thought, _they are just as false as Petyr and I. Just as false._ The body had not been displayed, but Sansa remembered it well enough – pale and frail, his weak concave chest, pouting lips, and sad wet eyes, now closed forever. _It was a mercy,_ she told herself, _a kindness._ She had once wondered if Petyr had been poisoning the boy, but in the end, poor sickly Sweetrobin had not needed anyone's help to the grave.

The ceremony at hand was mercifully short – the septon said some words, each of the major bannermen came forth to swear their fealty, and then, one and all, their highborn guests knelt before the new sovereigns. _Lady of the Vale._ There was something satisfying about the title – or maybe it simply seemed that way to Sansa because here at last, after being wedded and bedded and smuggled and threatened and used, here at last was a foothold. She wished Petyr were here. She had not seen him in a long time – had not touched him since those sweet secret kisses in the snow, nearly four months ago.

Her new subjects were gazing up at them admiringly, even _proudly_. After so many years of following the old and oft-absent Jon Arryn, and then Lysa – her shortcomings had been many and well known – and _then_ the dreadful prospect of bowing to the pale, sickly, ill-tempered Sweetrobin, the people of the Vale were easily stirred to loyalty by the well-choreographed sight of their _Young Falcon_ and his beautiful young wife. Standing on the dais in their finery, she and Harold looked the way the songs made one think a lord and lady were _supposed_ to look, and more importantly, Harold was _of the Vale_ in a way that Lord Protector Baelish could never be. _These people will kill for us, will die for us if we command it,_ thought Sansa with wonder, and all because of her sham of a marriage. She had never fully appreciated, until that moment, the bizarre frailty and potency of power – it was like being half a mascot, and half a god.

She was about to gesture for their assembled bannermen to rise, when she noticed the one person not kneeling, a man in the back with tousled grey hair and smoky green eyes. _Petyr._ Nobody had told her that he'd arrived. Protocol did not require him to kneel – Alayne and he were social equals now – but when their eyes met, he _did_ kneel, sinking slowly to his knees with a sardonic smile and something in his eyes that might have been love.

It was not until several hours later that she managed to slip away with him. In the crowded hall, they exchanged the words and gestures expected of a father and his daughter, and Sansa played the shy pretty wife for the many guests who sought her company. When she noticed Petyr casually depart down a narrow side-hall, she lingered for what felt like a plausible space of time, excused herself from a now inebriated Harold, and followed. Nobody hampered her discrete exit.

Sansa found him lounging in a deep-set stone windowsill, in a dark side-room at the end of the hall. She shut the heavy door as softly as she could, carefully sliding the iron bar in place to lock it. By the time she turned around, his arms were already around her, and then his hot mouth was on hers, tasting of mint and sweetness and need. She responded in kind, kissing him back ardently until her lips felt strange and tingly. She wanted to yell at him for being gone so long, to push him away and punish him for it, but she could not bring herself to pull away. He drew himself closer to her, and pushed her up gently but firmly against the rough stone wall, his urgent kisses now working down her neck.

"Petyr…" she began. He had done naught but kiss her, so far, but already she felt a warm slickness between her thighs, despite herself.

"I missed you," he breathed into her ear, his hands now deftly undoing the laces of her pretty blue dress.

" _Petyr,"_ she said again. She caught his hands and pushed them firmly down to his sides. That got his attention.

"Yes, my lady?" he answered, pulling himself out of his amorous reverie with what looked like some difficulty.

"You were gone for _four months_. Where have you been?"

"Oh, all over," he murmured, clearly still drunk on her. But when he saw the look on her face he continued. "The important thing is that I am now the Lord of Harrenhal in fact as well as name – my new castle had some uninvited inhabitants who needed to be evicted. I quelled some skirmishes on my lands, met with my bannermen to see to their needs, replaced some incompetents with people who actually know what they are doing, and let mine own smallfolk get a glimpse of their new lord. _Which_ , by the way, is very important – the art of ruling is just as much stagecraft as it is diplomacy, sweetling. Although it seems you have discovered that truth all on your own," he said, his fingers brushing her hair back lovingly, "my _Lady of the Vale._ "

"Do you – do you need me to persuade Harold to send over some of our fall harvest?" The land around Harrenhal had been reaped and burned and decimated terribly by the war, she knew. Petyr's people were probably starving.

But Petyr was shaking his head. "I am already having several large shipments of food, fuel, and building materials sent over from Braavos," he told her. "The supplies from a couple of the ships should have already arrived. That should give them some relief in the short term. And I've got my bannermen fortifying against the cold now, instead of against each other – that should improve things considerably."

"From Braavos? How…?"

"I _do_ have my own resources, sweetling," he said with a sly smile.

"That's… generous of you," said Sansa, "I must confess, I never really saw you as the type who would put his personal wealth toward the betterment of his smallfolk," she said, sliding her arms around him and watching his face carefully. In many ways, Petyr was still an enigma to her, so she was always testing, prodding, seeing what he would do and say under different circumstances.

Petyr looked wounded. "An unhappy populace is in nobody's best interest," he said flatly. "It is only fools like Cersei and her idiot son who fail to see _that_. I always take good care of my assets." He kissed her nose. It took Sansa a moment to realize that by _assets_ he meant his smallfolk. Her father – her true father – would have objected vehemently to that way of thinking, she knew, but he was dead, his people no better off for all his honor. _Worse_ off, in fact. It was then that Sansa had her first inkling that Petyr might make a very good lord indeed. Cersei had bribed him with an empty title, and now _Petyr's_ people were eating, when so many in the seven kingdoms were not.

His hands were exploring her curves with a touch so light she had barely noticed it, his lips nuzzling experimentally at her neck. When she didn't object, he smiled at her helplessly, that dark look of need having never quite left his grey-green eyes. Sansa gave him a deep kiss, satisfied with his answers – or perhaps just no longer willing to wait – and pushed him down onto an overstuffed sofa in the corner, more roughly than she had intended. He went with a smirking willingness, pulling her down on top of him, and then rolling them both over until he was straddling her, the way he had done on her wedding night. His questing fingers soon discovered how wet she was. Sansa squirmed with embarrassment, but it only seemed to make him want her more. Petyr made short work of her clothes, and she of his, and then with a breathless passion she let him take her, reveling in his scent and in the feel of him inside her. _Gods_ , she had missed him.

She did her best to stay quiet – they needed to be discrete, after all – but when his ardent thrusts brought her to the edge of that sweet, sweet elusive place, a low moan escaped her traitorous lips anyway. Petyr finished not long after she did, but even after he filled her with his hot seed and collapsed, spent, on top of her, he stayed inside her for a while, wrapping his long limbs around her buzzing body and holding her close. Sansa loved that he often did that. She snuggled against him. They lay like that, tangled blissfully together in that quiet dim room, for a long time.

"Sansa," he whispered finally, cupping her chin gently and turning her face so that their eyes met.

"Hmm?"

"I love you," he said softly.


	7. Sansa VI

 

SANSA VI

It was heavily overcast, and _cold_ , but at least it was not snowing. Sansa wore her thickest woolen cloak, supple leather boots, and one of her more practical dresses, but still the chill air made her think longingly of fires and blankets and hot mulled wine. Her breath clouded in front of her lovely pale face as she waited – somewhat impatiently – for the Stable Master to return with her mount. She didn't have to wait long. He soon emerged from the dim barn leading an amiable chestnut mare.

"This one should suit your needs, my Lady Alayne, but are you _sure_ you don't want to be accompanied by any guards? Wouldn't that be for the best? I can fetch some retainers for you, it won't take but a moment." He looked to be on the verge of doing just that before Sansa was able to get a word in edgewise.

"It is kind of you to offer, but I'll be fine. I don't plan on going very far, and it is much nicer to be able to get out of the castle without always –" she began, but the aggressively well-intentioned Stable Master interrupted, even as he handed her the worn leather reigns.

"Please, m'lady, it would really be more proper for the Lady of the Vale to have –"

" _Thank you_ , Ser, but I'm afraid I must decline. I'll be back before nightfall," she told him firmly as she climbed onto the horse. _He ought to have helped me mount, instead of lecturing me._ It was amazing to her, as Lady of the Vale, how much the people sworn to obey her _argued_ the moment she chose to do something the least bit unconventional. Kimi flitted about the mare's ears, and for a moment Sansa worried the little bird might spook her mount, but the affable beast only flicked its ears and ignored the mockingbird. The Stable Master opened his mouth to continue, but Sansa wheeled the horse around and left at a brisk trot before the old man could give her any more trouble.

She had hardly lost sight of the stables before she turned sharply, heading out into the quiet woods, following the narrow meandering path she had come to know so well over the past few weeks. Kimi winged along beside her as she ventured deeper and deeper among the somber soldier pines, smiling to herself. The cold bit her exposed face, and her fingers were quickly growing numb, but Sansa knew it was only temporary. Perhaps Petyr would have a fire roaring in the hearth when she arrived.

Every time, she and Petyr did this same dance. There was a seldom-used cabin not far from the Gates of the Moon where they met as often as they could – it had not taken them long to decide that the crowded castle itself was too risky a place for their illicit rendezvous. The place was small, but comfortable. Most importantly, it sported a soft feather bed, thick shutters they could lock, and a door they could bar. Petyr usually packed along blankets and wine and a tinder box as well. They made love there, often enough, but not always – sometimes Petyr just wanted to hold her, and talk between their intermittent kisses.

Sansa, Kimi, and the chestnut mare soon broke out of the trees, onto the bank of a wide, slow river under the open pearly-grey of the clouded sky. It was a minor tributary of the many waters that eventually, many miles away, culminated into the Trident. The river was frozen over, but the ice was still too thin for a direct crossing – there were places where she could see the dark of the water beneath the translucent ice. Sighing, Sansa turned the mare upstream, to rejoin the road and cross at the bridge, as she usually did. _Perhaps in a few months the ice will be thick enough to allow us to avoid the road altogether._ She hoped so. Petyr and she always took different paths to their cabin, but still, the risk of being followed or seen was higher than she liked to contemplate.

The road was deserted when her horse carried her up onto it, much to Sansa's relief. She thought she saw a small woodland fox out of the corner of her eye, with small gleaming black eyes and a coat white for winter, but when she looked, she saw only a bushy tail disappearing behind a tree. With Kimi still fluttering about her shoulder, she urged her mare onto the narrow wooden bridge.

The moment her horse's hoof met the bridge, Sansa knew something was wrong. The entire span shuddered dangerously, but the chestnut mare had already taken one step, two steps forward. Sansa tried to urge her mount back to safety of the bank behind them, but the beast was spooked by the shifting wood beneath its hooves, and tried to run _forward_ instead. With a sickening drop, girl and horse and bridge tumbled, as if in slow motion, towards the frozen river below. The bridge collapsed, not in the slow disorderly way one would expect if a rotten piling had given way, but quickly, cleanly, as if some fiend had sabotaged the structure. Sansa hardly had time to notice any of this, however, before she was falling amid a mass of debris, one foot still caught in the stirrup attached to the maddened, thrashing mare.

Her head hit the ice in a flash of hot, blinding pain. A split second later, the ice was giving way beneath the impact of heavy wooden beams, her leg was being twisted painfully by her caught foot, and the dark river was swallowing all. The water was so cold it _burned_. Sansa's world was spinning, but even in her disorientation she felt the sickening way her arm _snapped_ when it was caught by one of the dying mare's thrashing hooves. She let out an involuntary gasp at the savage blow, but swallowed only water. That sent her coughing, until river-water burned in her mouth, her nose, her throat. She no longer knew which way was up or down – everything was pain and madness and burning, burning cold – until she felt cold, slimy mud at her back. _The bottom,_ some part of her thought dimly.

Her wide eyes found a faint glimmer somewhere above her, but shifting icy darkness swallowed everything else. Sansa had never been a strong swimmer, but it hardly mattered. Her thick cloak, heavy in the water, weighed her down mercilessly. Her ankle was still hopelessly caught. Her arm was screaming with pain and didn't seem to be working properly as she struggled, more weakly every minute, to free herself. Blackness pressed in on her vision, and her thoughts grew strange and slow. There was water burning in her lungs, now, but it almost felt as if it were something happening far away or to someone else. Her mind sank into a soft, merciful darkness.

There was something tugging at the edge of her consciousness, faintly at first, but then more insistently. Something apart from her and yet vaguely familiar, something full of life and brightness. Sansa _reached_ for it. She found then that she could see again, but nothing made sense. She was looking _down_ on herself, drifting limply under seven or eight feet of icy water, her wings whirring as she hovered helplessly over the surface. _I'm flying,_ she thought, absurdly. It was just like those dreams she had, when she dreamed that she was Kimi. But this was no dream. _Find Petyr,_ a voice in the back of her head urged her, and she obliged.

She darted lightly over the water, through the trees, and down a slope, as fast as her small mockingbird wings could carry her. The cabin was not far. The door was ajar, and Petyr was inside, smiling to himself as he took bright yellow lemons out of a bag and arranged them in a bowl on a wooden table. He looked up in surprise when she flew in and began chirping madly at him, fluttering about his face and tugging on his shirt with her beak in a desperate attempt to convey her message.

Petyr shielded his face with one arm and waved her away with the other. "What the – _Kimi?_ " He glanced out the door for Sansa, but, not seeing her, returned to his chair by the table, watching the bird warily. _It's not enough, he doesn't understand,_ she thought, nearly in a blind panic now. She flew at his face, pecking at him wildly, still trying to tug on his clothing, _anything_ to make him understand. He only waved her away defensively, his look of increasing confusion her only reward. Darkness was encroaching on her again. She fought grimly to stay in Kimi's mind, but she was increasingly aware of the pain in her lungs, of the wet coldness pressing all around on her, of the way her heavy limbs would not respond. Then even these sensations slipped away, and there was only emptiness.

Sansa was unconscious by the time an arm wrapped tightly around her waist and pulled her up, up, up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcome and wanted! Thanks for reading. :)


	8. Petyr I/Arya II

PETYR I

Petyr broke the surface, gasping, his free hand scrambling for purchase on the slick edge of the ice. Sansa was a slim girl, but her dead weight threatened to pull him under again. His numb limbs felt leaden. He wasn't even sure he _could_ get her up onto the ice, and it might well give way if he did. Through the fog of his fear and exhaustion he heard the chirping of a mockingbird, somewhere to his left. He looked. The girl's bird was flitting about an overhanging remnant of the ruined bridge that stuck out low over the water, chirping anxiously. _Of course._

They nearly went under again before he had an arm around the slimy old piling, pulling them both up with a desperate strength he hadn't known he had. The thing shook perilously under their weight, but it held, and he made it – somehow – to the snowy shore. He collapsed onto the blessedly solid rocky beach with the limp girl in his arms, breath ragged and body trembling from the cold. Sansa, however, was deathly still. He turned her over, his heart in his throat. _Please be alive, please, please._ She didn't move. She wasn't even breathing.

Her dark wet hair was over her face, stark against the pale cold clamminess of her skin, blocking her nose and mouth. He brushed it away, praying that that would help. _Sansa, please._ For half a heart beat, there was still nothing, and then she was coughing violently, choking up water and shaking even more badly than he was. Petyr had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. She lay slumped in his arms, coughing desperately, for a long time. He was almost dizzy with relief. The mockingbird he had given her – _Kimi,_ he reminded himself – was back to acting like an ordinary bird, hopping about on a nearby branch as if nothing in the world was amiss. Then, at last, her lovely blue eyes fluttered open, unfocused and clouded with pain, but open, and _alive_. Petyr was so happy he could have kissed her, but he didn't.

" _Sansa?_ Can you breathe? Are you – are you okay?" The question sounded lame even in his own ears, but for once he didn't know what else to say. She tried to answer, but then fell into another fit of coughing. Her skin was still cold, _very_ cold, and her lips were tinged a frightening shade of blue. _Of course she's not okay_. He needed to get her somewhere warm. He didn't know how long she had been trapped under the icy water, but it had clearly been _too_ long, while he had been hitting out stupidly at that bird of hers. The mockingbird had been trying to warn him, he saw that now. His eyes found Kimi again, while he waited for Sansa to find her breath. The little brown mockingbird regarded him innocently, clutching a seed in its beak. _How_ or _why_ a bird would act that way was beyond him, but he was grateful that it had.

"Petyr?" Her voice was weak and scratchy.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for getting me lemons, I'm sorry - I'm sorry I couldn't be there to get them," she whispered dreamily, out of a haze of pain. The unlikely apology caught Petyr off guard. _How...?_ It didn't matter, they had other worries for the time being.

"The bridge, it just _fell_. The horse, is the horse dead?" She seemed to be waiting for a reply, but Petyr was now examining the ends of the collapsed bridge. He hadn't noticed in his haste to get to Sansa, but the heavy beams that had supported the main span had been sawn nearly all the way through. Barely more than a splinter of the timber had been left, poised to break under the weight of the first passerby.

"Sansa," he said softly, with a calm he did not feel, "this was no accident. We need to leave, _now_." He continued to cradle her, and tried to keep his voice even and low, but it was evident that she did not miss the urgency in his words. She tried to move, but winced. Her arm was twisted at a funny angle just below the elbow, and she didn't seem to be able to use it. Leaning heavily on him for support, she made another valiant effort to stand, favoring her left leg, pain flitting across her beautiful face. _Her arm is broken and her ankle is twisted,_ he realized.

He brought his horse over and lifted her up onto it, as gently as he could. She was still shivering, but he had nothing dry to give her – his own clothes were dripping with cold river-water as well. He swung up behind her, and prodded the horse into a walk, one arm holding her to him and the other on the reigns. At intervals that matched the horse's pace, he heard her breath catch with pain – their mount was probably jarring her arm with every step. She, however, uttered not a word of complaint.

He kissed her, lightly, on the back of her neck. Her damp white skin was cold on his lips. "Are you sure you're okay to ride, sweetling? I can –"

"I'm fine," she said, through gritted teeth. Petyr was impressed, despite himself. Most grown men would be screaming and crying after half of what she had just endured, but Cat's daughter only hung on grimly, eyes dry. Petyr held her to him more closely than was perhaps necessary, and thought his heart might melt. She was no Ned Stark – blundering into peril and confusing caution for cowardice – but she was brave when she had to be, and he loved her for it. With her permission, he urged their mount on a little faster – they needed to get back to the castle as soon as possible.

His thoughts returned to the ruined bridge. It had been a death trap. If it hadn't been for the little mockingbird's bizarre resourcefulness, it would have been a successful one. He planted a light kiss on Sansa's cheek, and thought about who would have the motive, the resources, and the ability to set such a trap. The list was short, and it made his blood run cold. What scared him most was that they gone after _her_.

 

ARYA II

Arya crouched in the lower branches of a great pine, one arm steadying herself against the rough trunk, the other in her pocket. Below, a man rode by on a tired old horse, clutching his injured daughter to him, her mark. Arya held perfectly still, as quiet and poised as a cat about to strike. _Calm as still water._ They passed almost directly beneath her. If either had looked up at just that moment, they would have seen her, but people never looked up.

She watched them, glumly. The daughter's dark wet hair was over her face, shielding it from view, but Arya could see the Coin Master's face well enough. It confirmed her suspicions. She had seen him a few times at King's Landing, a lifetime ago. Littlefinger, she thought she remembered him being called. It was a funny name, and one she knew, but that didn't matter because he wasn't her mark. Arya bit her lip. This was no longer a clean kill. The girl had fallen, and suffered, but lived yet. She wondered if the Many-Faced God was watching, or cared, or if the kindly-faced man would ask her about it when she returned. The man and his daughter did not look up, and continued on their way, unaware of death's servant among the shadowy branches. Arya watched them until they passed out of sight, and then sat back against the trunk, sighing.

People were predictable. It was one of the first things she had learned in her training. They went places, usually the same places, and came back, usually at the same times. These two went, separately and _alone_ , across the same bridge every few days. It had been almost too easy – or so she had thought. She had only glimpsed her mark a few times, and had never managed to get a full view of her face, but she was the Lady of the Vale and not much older than her sister would have been – very easy to identify. But the man had come back when he wasn't supposed to. That _hadn't_ been predictable.

The faceless girl pulled a small glass vial out of her pocket. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting it idly. It was no larger than her thumb, and contained a clear, tasteless, odorless liquid. Arya frowned, and put it back in her pocket. Poison was clumsy, and crude. It hadn't been her first choice, but it could be her second. She would not fail again.


End file.
